To Sing a Song of Love
by SerenLyall
Summary: To sing a song of love, they say, will wash the blood away. But child, don't you know that they, who even slay for love...are filled with darkness and with hate, their hands now dripped in blood? So now take heed, dear summer's child, and listen to my voice: all is fair in love and war-for all will end in death. (Warning for dark themes and torture)


**~To Sing a Song of Love~**

* * *

_Don't fret precious I'm here, step away from the window  
Go back to sleep  
Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils,  
See, they don't give a **** about you, like I do._

_Count the bodies like sheep  
Count the bodies like sheep_

_Counting bodies like sheep  
To the rhythm of the war drums._

_~Counting the Bodies Like Sheep – A Perfect Circle_

* * *

_Thud._

The repeated sound of a body being flung against a thick wooden door echoed hollowly through the twisting, underground tunnels. Otherwise there was silence, nothing but still, heavy air filling the shadows of the earthen passages and coiling around the tangled roots that jutted from the ceiling and walls and floor.

_Thud._

The door shook with the force of the body slamming against it, the thick timbers trembling and the bolt and hinges alike rattling in their fastenings. A single torch illuminated the grainy wood, and the flickering flame cast a myriad of dancing, contorting shadows on the edge of the small puddle of reddish gold light. The stones that had been mixed into the dirt of the wall on either side of the door, the better to keep whatever was inside within, protruded outward. The darkness was thickest beneath the stones where the light could not reach.

_Thud. A stifled cry of pain._

The inside of the cell – for what else could lay behind the shackled and bolted door? – was lit with a single torch, much like the passageway. It was a square room that had been hollowed out from the earth itself, and the signs of shovels and pick-axes were still just barely visible in the corners of the ceiling and on the walls. Seven paces long, seven paces wide, with nothing else but a metal bracket that held the torch affixed to one of the rocks set into the front wall, just to the left of the door.

_Thud. _

The door rattled, and the wood trembled, but still it would not give. A fist connected with the timber. _Thud. _And then the prisoner sank slowly to the ground, head in hands, and silent tears coursing down his cheeks.

* * *

The rattle of the bolt being released finally shook Elrond out of the half-conscious torpor he had slipped into. He leapt to his feet and quickly moved away from the door, standing calmly and coldly a few paces from the wall, waiting.

Something heavy and bulky was dragged to the door and then flung bodily inside. Elrond reacted instantly, paternal instinct telling him what it was even before his mind could process what he was seeing. Elrond caught the person just before he struck his head on the ground, and Elrond gently lay him down and crouched beside him.

Movement in the doorway caused Elrond to look up, and his face hardened into a mask of cold fury faster than the eye could track. The man standing in the doorway did not give him a chance to speak, however, meeting Elrond's steel silver eyes squarely.

"You have one hour to give us what we want, or we will do even worse to your other son." With that the man turned away, breaking eye contact, and strode out of sight down the passageway. The door swung shut behind him as one of his men tugged on the thick planks. The bolt grated as it was fixed back into place.

Elrond looked down at the young Elf lying at his feet. He was unconscious, his head lolling listlessly to one side, eyes closed and mouth open ever so slightly. A thin rivulet of blood was trickling down his chin from a split lip, and an angry purple bruise was already beginning to form on his left cheekbone.

Elrond bit back a strangled sob, and then carefully gathered the injured Elf into his arms, ignoring the pain in his left arm and in his hands. He cradled the lolling head against his chest as he lay back, shoulders against the wall behind him. Elrond began to hum softly, an old, wordless lullaby that had been sung to him in the mountains all those many years ago. Warmth and strength seemed to accompany the notes, and the thick and suffocated air was momentarily filled with light and life. The Elf stirred.

"Elladan," Elrond murmured, the tune faltering and then dying. But it had been enough. Elladan's eyes fluttered open, and he bit back a groan as he tried to move. Elrond's arms tightened about his son, holding him still and imparting strength and comfort alike. "Hush, my son," Elrond crooned softly. "You are safe now; I have you."

"Ada?"

"Yes, my son, I am here," Elrond said.

"Ada, what happened? Where are we? Where is Elrohir?" Elladan sounded panicked, and once more he struggled to break free of his father's hold. He fell back with a moan an instant later, and he shook as pain assaulted his senses. "Ada?"

Elrond felt his heart breaking at the sound of his son's pained and timid voice, at the way his voice cracked as he all but whispered the last word, the word that had once meant safety and love and security. He felt his heart break, and he struggled to hold back the tears that threatened to fall once more.

"Hush, my son," Elrond whispered, and then kissed the top of Elladan's head. "Hush, and save your strength."

Elladan fell silent, content for the moment to simply lay in his father's protective embrace. There was no place that he felt safer, and despite the pain coursing through his body, the niggling fear he felt rooting in his heart, and the confusion that plagued him at the blankness that he knew was the last few hours, he knew that he could not be more protected than he was in that moment. Slowly he drifted toward sleep, lulled there by the steady feel of his father's chest rising and falling beneath him. At some point his father began to sing once more, a simple, gentle melody that Elladan could remember being sung to him and Elrohir when they were but small children.

The heavy tramp of boots in the passage outside and then the rasp of the bolt being shot back silenced Elrond, and Elladan stiffened in his arms once more. And then the door was swinging open, the wooden bottom scraping against the earth.

"Your hour is up." It was the man from before, and he was standing directly in the doorway, his bulk casting fantastic shadows on the walls. "Make your decision, Elf lord – the information, or your son's well-being. And this time we won't be so gentle," he added with a sneer.

Elladan froze and his breathing quickened, eyes latched onto the face of his former tormenter. And then he began to shake as memory crashed over him, stealing his breath and making him want to cry out, to scream, to leap at the hideous beast standing before him, to do something but lie still and wait for the pain to come again. And then the memories of before his time in the long, low room came back, and he understood.

Elrond carefully moved out from beneath Elladan, and then lay him down on the floor. He stood, stretching to his full height, and then took a step toward the man in the doorway. The sound of men shifting filled the room, and then the torchlight gleamed off of spear-tips that were pointed directly toward the Elf lord's chest. Elrond halted his advance, although his cold eyes never once left the man's face.

"Ada, no," Elladan gasped, sitting upright and propping himself up against the wall, clutching his stomach and his chest. "You cannot…"

"Silence, Elladan," Elrond ordered, and there was a bitter bite to his voice that Elladan had never heard before. He fell silent, and could only watch what would happen with sick fear.

"So you have made your decision?" the man asked, and there was a sickened, gleeful grin spreading across his face.

"Yes." The man's grin widened until he looked like a jackal preparing to pounce. It disappeared an instant later as Elrond spoke again, however. "I cannot give you what it is you ask me for," he said quietly, although his voice filled the small space. "Ask for anything else, and if it is within my power, it is yours, I swear it. But this I cannot give."

"Then you damn your own son," the man hissed, his face contorting into a hideous mask of twisted rage. "Both of them. Think on that. I will return in an hour. In the meantime, listen to your son's screams."

The door grated closed, the spears still aimed at chest level to ensure the Elf lord did not attempt to escape as he had the first time. And then came the sound of the bolt locking back into place once again, followed by the tramp of heavy boots receding down the passage.

Elrond turned slowly, and then crossed to Elladan's side. He knelt, although he did not reach out to touch the other, balling his clenched fists in his hands instead. He would not meet his son's eyes.

"I am sorry, Elladan," he whispered. "I am so sorry." And then he turned away.

"Ada," Elladan said softly, and reached out for his father with a shaking hand. His fingers only just brushed Elrond's sleeve, but Elrond felt it. He looked up slowly, and his eyes met Elladan's. "Ada, we did not blame you. We still do not. If…if they are asking you for what I think they are, then we are willing to die to keep its secret. Many have before, and if you are its guardian, then we will gladly die for you. And…you are our father. We…we would do anything for you to keep you safe."

"Elladan…" Elrond closed the distance between them, and then folded his son in his arms once more, although he was careful not to put too much pressure on his chest. He had seen the way Elladan had been holding himself carefully, how he had been panting at the end of his speech. "My son…"

"I love you Ada," Elladan whispered into his father's chest. "We both do."

"I love you as well," Elrond responded. "And that is why…" he trailed off, unable to continue for a long moment. "That is why I cannot allow you to suffer for my sake. I am your father – it is my duty to protect you, to keep you safe."

"You do," Elladan replied, "and you always have. But perhaps now it is time for us to do the same for you."

Elrond shook his head, but made no reply. Instead, he simply held his son close as the seconds dragged into minutes. And Elladan curled up against his father, leaning against his chest and allowing his father to support him and take away some of his pain.

The first scream came unexpectedly, tearing through the air and shredding the silence like a bullwhip through flesh. It died away barely two seconds after it began, but even so the voice was unmistakable, and both of the Elves in the cell knew in an instant whose it was.

Elladan struggled to rise, his eyes snapping wide open and his entire body trembling with rage and fear and his brother's agony. But something held him down and kept him still. And then there was a voice, a voice murmuring as it pled with him. And he knew that voice, and loved that voice, and trusted that voice. And that voice did not disappear, even when a second scream rent the air, and slowly the voice took on words.

"Elladan…Elladan listen to me. There is naught that you can do for him right now. You will only injure yourself further, and then how will you aid him later? Elladan, listen to me. Please, my son."

Elladan stilled for an instant, although the fire did not leave his blood and bones, and he listened. And only then did he hear the tears in his father's voice, only then did he feel as his father shook from suppressed sobs.

And then a song rose through the air, and it was unlike anything that Elladan had ever heard before. It was as if there were words to the melody, but he could not hear them or even begin to understand them. It was as if the melody was a living thing, filling the cell with a living breath of noiseless wind, and in that wind was carried the aching sorrow of a thousand losses, but also the joy of boundless love. And there was the sound of waves upon the seashore, and the cries of gulls, and the whisperings of the trees as they spoke to each other, and the song and laughter of children, and horns heralding that the king had come, that victory had won.

Elladan listened, and he held to the strange and haunting melody, and although he could still feel his fear and his pain as strongly as ever before, it no longer consumed him.

There was one final scream, and then it was over. There was only silence beyond the confines of the cell, and then silence began to creep within as well. The song faded away until it was only an echo and a memory.

Ever after, until the breaking of the world, the earth there would remember that song, and it was noted that here the trees who had their roots there were the tallest and fairest and strongest of all their surrounding brethren, even unto the day they were hewn. And it was said that, on days where the wind would toss between the trees and dance across the land, the faintest echo of that long-forgotten and never-again-heard song lay just beyond hearing, and rose from the earth at the beckoning of the winds, whose master it had been who had sung.

But for those in the cell, with the waning of the song came the waxing of darkness once again. Down the passage toward the door came the tramp of boots, the grate of the bolt, and then the scuff of wood against hard-packed dirt.

Elrond stood and once again placed himself between his son and those who would do his son harm. He would not let them take him again, no matter the cost. He would not allow himself to be taken by surprise as he had been the first time.

The door was shoved open, and standing there was the man. He was holding something in his right hand, and as soon as he saw Elrond standing defiantly before him, he smiled.

"I have something for you," he grinned, and tossed what he held toward the Elf lord, "a token from your son."

Elrond instinctually reached out and caught the thing that had been thrown to him. It was a scrap of cloth torn from Elrohir's tunic, and there was something small and light wrapped in its folds. Stains dotted the already dark cloth, and with a sick feeling in his stomach Elrond knew what they were even before the torchlight caught the thick red spots.

"Go on," the man sneered, "see what it is."

With a flick of his wrist, Elrond flipped the folds of cloth open. It wasn't a single object as Elrond had first thought, but rather it was ten, neatly arranged in stacks of two. Blood still dribbled from the jagged edges, staining the cloth that held them together.

"Next time," the man warned, and his voice was cold with warning now, "it won't just be his fingernails that you'll be getting."

Elrond's fingers tightened into a fist around the bloodied cloth, and he fought to keep his mounting rage under control. "If you want to see someone bleed," he snarled, "then use me. I am the one not giving you what it is you seek."

The man smirked. "An intriguing proposition," he said, "but I think not. I have heard tales of your…resilience to such methods, _my lord_," he laughed. "To get what I want, I know I will have to go about…persuading you another way."

"I would rather die than watch my father bow to the likes of you," Elladan hissed from behind Elrond. He hauled himself to his feet, fighting back the pained cry as broken ribs grated against one another, and put a hand against the wall to steady himself as the world swam all about.

"Good, because that is just what you'll do if your _father _does not give us the ring," the man taunted.

"You will not harm him again," Elrond warned, and suddenly his voice was low and filled with barely restrained wrath. "But if you do, I swear I will kill you. No matter the cost." And there was death in his gaze.

Even the leader took an unconscious step backwards, so taken aback was he by the power emanating from the Elf lord. But then he bared his teeth. "I would like to see you try," he hissed. "Take the son," he ordered to his men, who were flanking him, each of them carrying spears, knives, or clubs. They hesitated, suddenly wary of entering the same cell as the Elves. The leader rounded on them. "Go on, seize him! Why are you afraid of one old, unarmed Elf and his injured son? Seize him!" the man roared, spittle flying from his mouth.

The men charged into the cell. Faced with the rage of their leader or the fear of the unknown, they chose the latter. After all was said and done, those who survived would dearly wish that they had chosen differently. But the choice had been made, and the future was set.

Elrond moved faster than the men could follow, and the first guard was falling to the ground, neck broken, before any of the others had even realized what had happened. And then Elrond was lunging for the second man, who only just managed to raise his spear in time to knock away the jab to the face that would have broken his nose and sent bone splinters into his brain. A second later, the man crashed to the floor with a howl as a foot connected solidly with his knees and shattered them. By then, the others had realized what was happening and had flooded into the room, trying to surround the Elf lord.

Elrond whirled, lashing out at a third man with a flying foot and sending him crashing into a fourth. The whistle of air was his only warning and he ducked just as a spear was thrust through where his chest had been an instant before. He spun, catching the shaft of the spear and using it to throw the man against the wall. He did not let go of his weapon as Elrond had expected, however, and Elrond was jerked forward as well. A well-placed knee found its way into Elrond's stomach and he staggered backwards, the breath knocked from his lungs.

He landed flat on the floor an instant later and rolled beneath the club strike that would have knocked him unconscious. Standing, he rammed his head into the club-wielder's chest, and he could feel as the ribs shattered and were thrust inward until they pierced the man's lungs and heart. The man fell with a choked cry of pain, clutching at his caved-in chest.

Something hard and wooden tightened over Elrond's throat and he was yanked backwards against someone's chest. Elrond thrust his elbow back against the man trying to choke him and he heard a grunt, but the pressure did not ease up. Elrond turned, trying to set the man off of his balance, but the man merely turned with his captive, and when Elrond flung his head backwards to smash into his face, the man dodged the blow, albeit barely.

More men had flooded into the cell, naked weapons glinting in the torchlight. They crowded against the suffocating Elf lord, pressing their blades into his stomach and chest hard enough to leave tiny beads of blood. Others of them grabbed for Elladan and restrained him even as he fought wildly to reach his father. One particularly vicious punch to the chest sent him faltering, and gave the men a chance to grab his arms and secure him in a stranglehold much like his father was held in.

Elrond thrashed, ignoring the bite of the blades as they dug deeper into his flesh, his only thought to reach his son, to protect him. His vision began to go gray, and even he could hear his wheezing pants as his body fought to draw in breath past the thick rod of wood that was being used to strangle him.

Without warning the pressure on Elrond's throat suddenly vanished as the back of his head finally connected with the face of the man behind him. The man yelped in surprise and instinctually drew back, releasing the Elf lord.

Elrond took full advantage of the instant that he was free, kicking out toward a spear bearer and knocking the weapon from his hands. Elrond struck, punching the palm of his hand into the man's face and sending his nose straight into his brain. The victim's eyes bled as he fell to the ground without a sound.

Elrond whirled to go to his son's aid when he felt something pierce his upper right arm. Glancing down, he only just caught sight of a knife blade protruding from his flesh, crimson blood dripping from the tip, and then he was staggering as the world tilted alarmingly. His shoulder slammed into the wall, and although he tried to push himself away, he found that he could do little but sway drunkenly before tripping and falling to his knees. He thought he heard a cry of dismay, but when he looked around to see where it had come from, he found that everything was twisting around him in a sickening circle, and nothing would come into focus.

A boot connected solidly with his back, and Elrond had little strength to keep himself from toppling face-first onto the hard ground. There was laughter all around him, and a vague memory attempted to surface. His sluggish mind could not recall what that memory was, however. Or was it that he simply did not truly wish to remember – that his mind had purposefully blocked such memories? He could not recall…

Someone stepped on his shoulder, and then Elrond could feel the knife being wrenched out of his arm. Then the person standing on him knelt down, and their breath brushed against Elrond's ear as they spoke.

"Looks like your wish was granted after all," the man said in a mocking tone. "But never fear, your sons will get twice what we give you, until they beg for it to end – beg _you_ for it to end. And the only way you will be able to stop it is if you give us what we want. Don't worry, the poison will wear off quickly enough for you to see it all." The man chuckled darkly, and then stood. "Bring them both."

"Ada! Ada…" Elladan's frantic voice was the last thing Elrond heard before his world went utterly dark and silent.

He could not move, could not hear, could not see; he could only feel the rough, ungentle hands of the men as they seized him beneath the arms and hoisted him up. He could only feel as they dragged him out of the cell and down the passage, his legs dragging against the floor. He could only feel as he was flung against a wall, his head smacking against cold stone before striking the earth as he fell to the ground.

They left him there, and he could feel their footsteps as they moved about the room they had taken him to. He could feel when they dragged someone else in a moment later.

His hearing began to return first, everything sounding as if it were underwater. The rattle of chains. Someone calling out desperately, repeating a name over and over again. The sound of a fist striking flesh.

Elrond fought, and slowly the darkness that hung over his eyes began to peel away as well. Gray shapes began to take form among the shadows, and then the shadows began to turn pearly white. He fought harder, until the white too began to dissolve into shadow once more, but this time it was natural shadow, and a darkness that filled a place with little light rather than the lack of sight.

"He's conscious again."

"Good. Put him up against the wall."

Hands grabbing him once again, and then he was being lifted off of the ground by two bearded men. He tried to struggle, but his body did not seem to want to respond to any commands just yet.

His back met a wall, and then his arms were being stretched out to either side of him. Metal cuffs were fastened around both of his wrists, binding him tightly against the wall. As the men stepped away, Elrond forced his head up with no small degree of difficulty, and the men quickened their pace when they caught sight of the glare on the Elf's face.

Elrond's gaze swept across the room, taking in the torches bracketed to the wall, the wooden crates that served as tables, and the chains that hung from the ceiling. His gaze froze as he caught sight of Elladan hanging there by his wrists, his feet a few inches from the ground. Elladan's eyes met Elrond's for just an instant, and he tried to smile – tried, and failed. Instead, it came out as something of a pained, fearful grimace. Elrond held his oldest son's eyes for a second longer, conveying all of the pride and strength and love that he could in that single look, and Elladan nodded. Then Elrond's eyes were roving again, searching for the other that he knew, in his heart at least, was there with them.

He found Elrohir bound tightly to a chair in the shadows of a corner. A gag had been shoved into his mouth, muffling his cries. There was blood all down one side of his face, and Elrond could see that his left shoulder was out of place. His hands were a bloody mess, the nail-less fingers clenching the edges of the armrests that his wrists were bound to.

Like Elladan, Elrohir latched onto his father's gaze. But whereas his brother's had been strong and defiant despite his pain and fear, Elrohir's was weaker, and he did not try to hide his agony. His eyes were pleading, and Elrond gave him what he sought the most – pride for his actions, but most of all love, eternal and unquenchable love. Elrohir blinked and looked down.

A blow to the side of his head sent Elrond's cheek smacking against the wall behind him.

"Look at me when I speak to you." Slowly Elrond looked forward until his eyes met those of the leader. It was only then, in the brighter light of the many torches, that Elrond saw the scar that traced down the edge of the man's cheek and disappeared into the stubble on his chin. "Last chance before it gets bad, Elf," Scar spat. "Give me your ring, and your sons walk free."

"Coward," Elrond hissed, and spat on him.

The three blows came in quick succession, landing squarely in his stomach and causing Elrond to retch. He made sure that the little bile that came up landed on Scar's boots and the man cursed before viciously backhanding him, splitting his lip and smacking his head against the wall yet again.

"You will pay for that," Scar hissed, and then struck him again on the other cheek. Another blow followed, this time to his lower ribs, and then a knee to the groin. Elrond grit his teeth and took the beating in silence, willing for the man to forget, at least for a moment, about the other two Elves in the room.

"Stop!" Elrond closed his eyes, silently trying to order his oldest son to be quiet, to let this happen. But whether or not Elladan heard his unspoken plea, he spoke again, and although his voice shook, it was clear. "Stop, I say."

Scar turned away from Elrond to look at the Elf hanging from the ceiling. A feral grin spread across his lips and into his eyes, making them gleam in the ruddy light, and he stalked toward the older twin.

"You wish for me to stop? Very well then." And he struck Elladan full in the chest. Elladan went as white as a sheet, and his eyes went wide. He convulsed slightly, and opened and closed his mouth as he struggled to draw breath. And then he was drawing in a shallow, gasping breath that was far quieter than it should have been.

"Ada…" he gasped, and he looked to his father with wide eyes. But then he bit his lip and tore his gaze away, determined to follow through with whatever Scar wished to do to him.

Elrond, however, was not so passive. "You coward," he yelled, straining against the metal cuffs that held him against the wall, dark fire in his eyes. "You would beat a helpless child? Have you no honor?" The edges of the manacles bit into his wrists, and Elrond could feel blood beginning to trickle down his arms and onto the rocky earth behind him. But still he strained.

Scar turned to face him, leering unpleasantly. Bending down, he picked up a cane that had been lying at the base of one of the many boxes scattered around the room, and brought it swishing down through the air.

"So this is a child? Then I shall beat him as such. Every child deserves at least one good caning in his life," he laughed, and turned to begin beating Elladan once more. Face, hands, legs, back, arms, buttocks, neck – he spared no inch of flesh. Elladan bore the caning with nary a sound, and he kept his eyes closed. And so it was that he did not see his brother twisting in his ropes and trying to bite through the gag muffling him, fresh tears thickening the cloth. And neither did he see his father fighting against the cruel iron that held him fast, unshed tears in his silver eyes.

The cane snapped, and Scar tossed aside the broken end carelessly, although he was sweating from the exertion of delivering the beating. "Are you ready to give me the ring now, Elf?" Scar panted, turning to face Elrond with a malicious grin.

"Dôl gîn lost," Elrond spat, and although he could not understand what it was he said, Scar knew that it was nothing kind. Elladan and Elrohir smiled ever so slightly, encouraged by their father's fire.

"Have it your way. Jorj, Mattew, unbind the other one," Scar ordered.

Two of the men who had been lurking near to the door stepped into the room and hurried toward Elrohir, who struggled as they neared. They ignored the injured Elf's movements and unsheathed their knives. Setting the blades against the ropes, the men began to saw back and forth, not caring if they nicked the Elf who twisted beneath them. After only a moment, the ropes had parted, and the taller of the two was jerking the gag from Elrohir's mouth.

Elrohir tried to rise, but his right leg seemed unable to bear his weight. He fell to one knee with a stifled cry. He began to rise, using the chair behind him to help lever himself upright. His feet were kicked out from under him and he was flung bodily through the air by his hair. When he landed, he slid to a halt a few paces away from his father.

Elrond glanced up from the prone form of his son to Scar. He had his dagger unsheathed, and was holding it in the flames of one of the torches, allowing the metal to heat. Elrond felt his gut tighten – he knew how much branding hurt.

"Elrohir, listen to me," Elrond said softly, and the wrath in his eyes flickered and gave way for a moment. "Whatever happens, you are not alone. Remember that, my son – you are not alone, and you never shall be."

"Ada…" Elrohir whispered as he turned over.

"I am here, my son, I am here, as is your brother," Elrond promised. He glanced up, and saw Scar just taking the knife from the flame. The metal was not white-hot, at least – although he would have been hard put to get the metal to such temperatures with only a single torch, Elrond realized – but it was a sullen red, and that would be painful enough. "Remember to breathe, and listen to my voice. Think of your mother, of your brother, of your sister. Think of Imladris, and of the stars and the sunrise over the ridge…"

Elrohir struggled to sit up, but before he could manage Scar was there, was kneeling down and pushing the injured Elf to the ground. Elrohir watched with wide eyes as the knife blade was lowered tantalizingly slowly to his face, and then it was being pressed against his cheek. The sizzle of flesh cooking accompanied the scent of burnt meat, and all those who were in the room gagged slightly.

A guttural screech of pain tore through the air, but it did not come from Elrohir. Elrond glanced up to see Elladan twisting in his chains, swinging back and forth, and his mouth was wide open as he cried for his brother. And there was both anger and pain in his voice and in his eyes, and a wild, desperate gleam that was not unlike that of a cornered wolf.

Elrohir scrabbled weakly against Scar's wrist, but his nail-less fingers were unable to gain purchase. A whimper of pain escaped him, and then it quickly morphed into a high pitched squeal as he thrashed more and more frantically beneath the searing metal. He even gripped the knife with the tips of his fingers and tried to pull it away, but he had no leverage, and he only managed to gouge open his fingertips.

It felt to Elrond as if his soul was being systematically shredded into tatters. It hurt him, physically pained him, to watch as his sons were tortured, and there was nothing that he could do.

No…no that was not true. There was _something_ he could do that would possibly alleviate their pain, but he dared not do so. If he gave them what they asked for, he would ultimately damn thousands, and much of the beauty of the world would fade or be laid to waste. There would be death, and the winds themselves would turn on each other as they were commanded to do that which they were not meant to. That much he knew, and there were consequences beyond those which he could perceive.

No, he could not give them what they asked for. And it tore his heart, and his soul, apart. Tore it until he screamed in terrible rage and agony, and the scream was one that he had not uttered since the final battle upon the slopes of Orodruin. It was the scream that he had first uttered upon the shores of the sea when he had tried to slay Maedhros for spilling his brother's blood, for his attempt to take his mother's.

He screamed, and all those who heard it were afraid.

Scar dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor harmlessly as he lunged backwards, away from the wrathful Elf lord. He tried once to look at him, but he quailed as his eyes met burning silver and he quickly looked away, unable to bear the weight or the power held within.

"Shut him up!" Scar shrieked, clapping his hands over his ears as he turned away. "Shut that damn thing up!" But none of the men seemed to want to come close, and they shied away, keeping to the door and to the walls.

"Shut up!" Scar howled. "Shuddupshuddup!" He whirled, a frantic look plastered across his face, and he reached out blindly for something, anything that he could use. His fingers curled around the butt of a bullwhip.

The sound of bone cracking – cracking, snapping, giving beneath iron cuffs – filled the sudden, deafening silence that fell as the whip was raised. Scar had no time to react as he lashed out, bringing the braided leather tines snapping toward Elladan, who hung unprotected and defenseless.

The snap of leather across flesh. Then the thud of a body hitting the floor. Elladan's startled cry. Elrohir's breathless gasp, and then his angered howl. The whip falling to the floor from numb hands.

"I warned you not to harm my sons again." The voice was low and deadly, and filled with the ancient power of a thousand years, and of Men and Elves and spirits beyond mortal comprehension. "I said that I would kill you if you did."

Scar lifted his arms to block the first blow, and he felt bone crack. He ducked, and then in a last act of desperation threw himself at the Elf, the wild gleam of an animal gone rabid in his eyes.

Pain in his chest as he felt his ribs shatter. Then the strangest sense of tearing as he landed on his back. He was gasping, trying to breathe, only he couldn't – the pain was too great. He looked up in shock and surprise and confusion, and there above him he saw the Elf he had thought to cow.

The Elf knelt, and there was something in his hand, something that dripped a river of blood. "You hurt my sons," he said coldly, calmly.

The last thing Scar saw before the eternal void took him was the Elf, the left side of his face a mask of scarlet from the blood that ran from the lash mark on his cheek. His eyes were cold and hard as tempered steel, and filled with impassivity as he watched Scar die that could only mark one who had seen an eternity of death and despair, and who cared not for his hand in the dealing of either.

Elrond dropped the dying heart onto the corpse and then turned. Everyone in the room was utterly still, and as his eyes swept over the thin ranks of men standing in the doorway, an air of palpable fear rolled through the stifling chamber.

"I am taking my sons, and I am leaving," Elrond stated calmly. "If you stand in my way or attempt to stop me, I will kill you."

The humans fled.


End file.
